


The Knights and their Bees - Extras

by Niitza



Series: The Knights and their Bees 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some more slices of life in the <i>The Knights and their Bees</i> 'verse, because the characters won't leave me alone and we all need the fluff (... and angst).</p><p>5: In which Dean's Harrison Ford obsession is showing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I want something simple."

Castiel looks up from the trench he's weeding and blinks the sweat out of his eyes. The sky is slightly cloudy, the haze that would make him believe that what he's hearing and seeing is an illusion absent. He must conclude, then, that what he's heard and is now seeing is real.

"Dean," he says, sticking the hoe into the ground and straightening up.

His presence is a nice surprise. But Castiel doesn't have the time to say so: "And I know people always rave about cake," Dean blurts out. "But I'd really really prefer it if we could fit in some pie. Preferably my mom's. She'd like that. Your mom should be here too."

By then Castiel has realized something is amiss. "Dean," he repeats, soft but firm, which succeeds in making Dean pause. "What are you talking about?" He frowns. "And not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here? Weren't you filling in at the garage?"

"They let me go early. They knew like I did that it'd be no use to try and call you, since your  cell is always off when you're at the farm, and even worse it's back at the house. And you know what? That'll have to change. What if something happened to me and they can't get a hold of you 'cause you're out there, uh? Then you'd have no idea something was wrong, or at least not until you come home and notice dinner isn't done. And how come I'm the freaking housewife in this scenario?"

"Dean—" Castiel tries to interrupt.

"And you're already the sucky husband and that's not okay."

"Dean." Castiel manages to catch Dean's hands in both of his. His palms are clammy, almost cold, matching the paleness of his face and the tension in his voice. That, combined with the nonsensical rant, has him squeeze Dean's hands in worry. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

Dean stares at him for several long seconds before he swallows and says: "It passed."

"What passed?" Castiel asks, trying to keep his voice—and himself—calm.

"We're getting married."

A second goes by, then another, and another—and then Castiel connects the dots. His confusion dissolves. "Oh."

And just like that he knows what's wrong. If you can call it that. He takes a step closer, cradles Dean's hands against his chest.

"Dean, it's okay," he says. "It's all going to be okay."

"How would you know?" Dean retorts. "'Cause I don't know about you, but I've never been a husband before and knowing myself, I have like 300% chances of fucking it up royally and—"

"No you don't. Dean," Castiel adds when Dean opens his mouth to protest. "It won't be that much different from how things are now."

"It won't?"

"No." Castiel looks down at their hands and traces Dean's knuckles with the pad of his index fingers. "We will still wake up together in the morning. You will still cook a delicious breakfast but fail at making decent coffee, yet I will still miss it come the afternoon if you're away. You will still despair of me watching procedural cop shows and not understanding you fascination with Dr. Sexy MD. I will still despair of you being addicted to Spanish telenovelas and refusing to admit that you watched your brother rekindle his relationship with Jessica like it was one of them. You will still need me to save you from the cats and assure you that my father has no intention of ever using his axe on you. We will cook and eat dinner together, and my father will still be the one doing the dishes while we settle at the kitchen table, you with your homework and me with our accounts. We will still welcome the kids from Sonny's home over the summer, because Sheriff Mills won't allow us to bail on her now anyway. We will still go to the market every Sunday and you will still charm all our elderly customers into buying a lot more produce than they plan or need. We will still go visit my mother at least once a week and bicker about which couple of days would be best to go see yours. We will still go on road trips." He drops a kiss on the first phalanx of Dean's index finger. "We will still make love."

As expected, that last one brings a dirty smile onto Dean's lips.

"The only difference will be that in the event of your death and unless you've previously specified otherwise, I will inherit the Impala," Castiel finishes.

The smile fades from Dean's lips to be replaced by a thoughtful frown. "And what, if _you_ die, I inherit the farm?"

"From my parents, yes."

"Okay, rule number one: you're forbidden to die."

Castiel nods. "I shall try to remember that in case Death comes to me and suggests we elope."

Dean makes such a face at the thought that Castiel feels proud.

"But just so you know, you're not allowed to die either."

"No but see, that'd be okay," Dean protests. "'Cause we all know you wouldn't take proper care of Baby, so I'd come back to haunt you and we'd still be together anyways."

Part of what Dean's words imply—without him quite realizing it, probably—makes Castiel feel warm. Another part less so.

"The faith you have in my ability to take care of your car is heartwarming," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dean snorts. "Hey, I've seen the state of that wreck you call a truck, okay? Remember that day it died on the edge of the road and left you stranded in the middle of nowhere?"

"You will still be nagging me about that in fifty years, won't you?" Castiel says, narrowing his eyes.

Dean nods. "Yup."

This time, Castiel can't help his smile. "Good," he says, and leans in to drop a kiss on Dean's lips. He lingers there, though, nips at them and parts his own lips, just enough to add a little bit of wetness, a little bit of tongue. He makes it sweet and slow, kind and heartfelt, and when he pulls away Dean follows him, eyes closed. He blinks them back open after a second; they're a little hazy. Appeased.

"Better now?" Castiel murmurs.

Dean blinks again. A faint flush spreads over his cheeks and he looks down, abashed at his near freakout. "Yeah."

They're still standing close enough that Castiel only needs to lean in minutely for their noses to brush against each other. "Do you have to go back to the garage?"

"No," Dean replies, and from the way his head is now tilting to the side he's getting ready to steal another kiss. "I was almost at the end of my shift when the news came."

"Then help me around here for a bit?" Castiel whispers. "I'll help you with dinner after, and we can start to plan."

"'Kay."

"Okay."

He lets Dean have another kiss, though.

Or two.

Or three.

 

*

 

(It _is_ a simple wedding.

But also beautiful.

And very happy.)


	2. Chapter 2

It took Dean an absurdly long amount of time to notice, but once he had it became one of these things he couldn't ignore: the Knights consumed an absurdly huge ass amount of corn. Like, it was the basis of their alimentation - and on some days the whole of it, it seemed.

There was grilled corn and corn bread, corn salad and chili con carne—with more corn than carne—, corn cobbler and even corn and cheese omelet in the morning, corn pudding, corn _cakes_. Corn everything.

And Dean liked corn about as much as the next guy, but this… this was too much. Even he didn't eat as much pie as the Knights ate corn.

Still: he wasn't the kind of guy to tell other people how to live their life or what to it, so he didn't do anything beyond trying to expand Cas' horizon when Cas visited and Dean made the food.

Until Cas' father got sick.

"Sick?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Cas replied. "Surprising, I know," he went on, correctly interpreting Dean's look. "But it does happen."

"… Okay," Dean said. That sounded fake, but okay.

Cas went back to the kitchen, all the way to the stove where a pot was waiting, ready to cook something. He'd obviously been interrupted by Dean's arrival.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked.

"Soup," Cas replied. "That's the only thing he eats when he's down with something."

"What kind of soup?"

"Corn and tomato," Cas said.

And okay, no. _No_.

"No," Dean said.

"No?"

"No."

And he proceeded to show Cas how real tomato soup was made. With rice.

Of course, he hadn't taken into account how stressful it would be to wait as Cas carried a bowl of tomato rice soup to his father's room.

"So?" he asked when Cas came back.

"So," Cas said. "He liked it."

Dean breathed out. He'd used his mom's receipt—he was glad to have honored it.

"Then I told him you had made it, and he said there wasn't enough salt."

Dean blinked.

"Glad to know he's getting better," he snarked.

Cas smiled, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to kiss him.

 


	3. On hair (specifically, Cain's)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some CainxColette backstory. Beware of the angst, though. As you are aware, Cain's life kind of sucks.

Colette was with Louise when Maurice brought the boy home.

(They'd just lost one of their grandchildren for good, after losing their only daughter, of course Colette was with them.

But how curious, that even now, even after all these years, when she thinks about that first meeting he always comes off as so much younger than she felt, even though there was only one year difference between them.)

She'd never met him, had hardly ever heard of him. Maurice and Louise were much more eager to talk about Abel, the younger brother, who was so kind and helpful, who understood the earth and the plants and would undoubtedly take over the farm one day.

(Only he wouldn't, would he?)

She'd been curious, though. Part of her wanted to know how someone would be holding up after such a long, heart-wrenching tragedy; another dreamt about the city, how different it was, how different it made people; and another wondered about the boy himself, a boy almost her age, a boy she didn't know.

The first impression, when it came, was one of confusion. She hadn't expected the boy who stepped off Maurice's truck to be so… odd.

He was quite tall, yet scrawny, much scrawnier than the boys with whom she'd grown up. His clothes didn't help. They were strange clothes, clothes she'd only ever seen in the movies, clothes that real people didn't wear and that, without the veneer of the screen, revealed their utter unpracticality and ridiculousness: skinny black jeans, a thin white t-shirt, a black leather jacket covered in silver zippers and studs, all two sizes too small, or so it seemed. The face that came with it completed the picture: angry eyebrows, hair that was long and lush—and not even tied, already the dusty Kansas wind was starting to play with them—, black as the mustache crossing his upper-lip.

It wasn't a boy Colette saw that morning. It was an alien, unexpectedly thrown down to earth.

 

*

 

When you came closer you could see that it wasn't simply a mustache, actually. His whole face was unshaven. And somehow it was obvious that it wasn't simple neglect, that is was _intended_. That for some reason—an absurd fashion that still hadn't reached the remotest corners of the Midwest?—the boy was trying to let his facial hair grow.

His beard wasn't getting with the program, though.

(Contrary to his shoulder-length hair, of which more than one girl might've been jealous.)

Still he tried, and refused to shave the hairs peppering his jaw, his chin, even though they weren't growing densely enough at all.

It was ridiculous. It was vain. It made him look unkempt, like an idiot—or, combined with the uppity angle of his eyebrows, like a jerk.

Which matched his personality perfectly, Colette soon found out. So she didn't bother trying to advise him to shave.

After all, that way, people were warned from the get go.

 

*

 

(No matter what snobs and cretins from the city might think, the people around here weren't dumb, and quickly realized what they were dealing with.

From City Boy, the newcomer was rapidly demoted to City Dweeb.)

 

*

 

The first to go was the hair.

It wasn't surprising: for some reason (more vanity?) the boy refused to tie it, no matter how busy Louise and Maurice kept him during the day on the farm, at the house. It was always getting in his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead, catching in the branches of the orchard, gathering leaves and sticks and dust. More than once Colette caught him trying to flick them back without touching them with his fingers—dirty from digging the earth, sticky from pressing fruit, soapy from cleaning products—, which always led to the strangest contortions.

(She didn't try as hard as she could have to hide her amused smiles. He caught them, more than once.)

It was a nightmare to untangle at the end of the day, Louise said. It led to such scenes, too, the boy complaining and hissing and cursing for nearly an hour every night as he fought with his comb.

Until one day she had enough.

That story Maurice told her—he had a talent for relating events, even the most mundane, in a way that turned them into the most epic, most amusing stories. Louise had simply stood up and caught the boy by his mane, had snatched the kitchen scissors and dragged him to the bathroom, had stuck his head under the faucet and started to cut, paying no heed to his squeals. And squealed he had, Maurice said, like a pig to the slaughter. Or a piglet, he'd added musingly.

Colette was still laughing when the boy stepped into the room. And even if she'd known it was quite shocking, actually, to see him with his hair so short, shorn to the sides. It changed his face in an almost eerie way, made it look stern, square, angry. His ears, now entirely visible, appeared naked and strangely vulnerable. Most of all, it enhanced the downward curve of his lips, the reddish hue around his eyes, the lines already carved on his forehead—marks that had no place on a face so young.

Suddenly Colette remembered, or maybe realized for the first time, how much this boy had lost: not only his family—his mother and father in one fell swoop, his brother along with his last hopes—but also his home, the place he'd grown up in, the only world he'd ever known.

Her laughter broke off.

Cain, of course, had guessed what they'd been talking about. He threw her a venomous glare, and left the room.

For once, it was entirely warranted, she felt.

 

*

 

The mustache, though. The mustache stayed.

Unfortunately.

 

*

 

Unfortunately, or so she thought, until she saw Cain clean-shaven for the first time.

It was almost two years later. It was for Louise's funeral.

And Colette would've preferred her eyes to be forever offended by his mustache, by his beard that was slowly but not so surely catching up, instead of this, anything but _this_ , coming so quickly, so soon.

(So soon, but not unexpectedly. Louise, she knew, everyone knew, had never recovered from the loss of her daughter.)

Colette barely recognized him. It might've been the expression on his face, blank, frozen, everything in him faded like Louise had taken half of it with her. But there was something else too. Something foreign. Without the mustache there was nothing to detract from the thin line of his lips, the harsh bridge of his nose—from hard features that weren't Louise's, that weren't Maurice's, that maybe harked back to that father Colette had never heard much about.

And here he stood, a stranger all over again, remote, unreachable.

Colette didn't know what to say to him.

 

*

 

Maurice followed his wife, less than a year later.

At the end of the funeral Cain stood alone beside the coffin, his cheeks and upper lip smooth, his haircut almost military.

Colette didn't know what to say to him then either.

 

*

 

She didn't see much of him after that. She didn't expect to.

No one did. Rather they were waiting for the news: that the farm had gone to one of its neighbors, that another stranger had arrived to take over—that _he_ had left. That he'd returned to his city, his  world, his own strange planet.

It didn't come.

Summer segued into fall, fall into winter. One morning Colette put on her wool stockings, her thickest skirt, her solid boots and trudged through snow and wind to the cemetery.

It was a quiet day. The skies were low and heavy, the wind cutting. The roads were mostly deserted, people preferring to stay indoors. It hadn't snowed in a few days. The cover on the ground had turned crisp, crinkled under her shoes.

There was already someone there when she arrived, a dark, slender silhouette standing in front of a grave, blending with the colorless landscape.

She was halfway to the grave before she recognized him, and then wondered at herself for being surprised. It was the one year anniversary of Louise's death. Of course he'd be there.

She hesitated for a second, not wanting to disturb him, fearing his reaction—then she plodded forwards. After all, she _had_ been wondering how he was doing, for Louise and Maurice's sake if not for hers. But she hadn't had the time—or, if she was honest with herself, the will—to drive all the way to his farm to see for herself. And in town, where his presence had never been appreciated, had never been understood, there was no one who cared to know, no one she could've asked.

He threw her a brief glance when he heard her approach, but that was the extent of his reaction. She barely caught a glimpse of his face under the hood of his black parka—a mess of hair and beard that obviously hadn't been trimmed in months—before his attention went back to the grave in front of him.

She stopped at his side, not too close, followed his gaze. A small flower box had been placed in front of the headstone, overflowing with evergreens, tough enough to endure in the winter.

"She always loved violas," Colette commented, smiling down at the hardy little flowers blooming in stubborn yellows and purples.

Cain didn't answer.

A minute passed, then two, then more. More than once Colette glanced at the young man beside her, but he simply stood there, unmoving, as if she wasn't there. He didn't seem bothered by the chill in the air, the wind, the humid touch promising snow or slush later in the day.

Colette searched for a topic of conversation.

"Are you waiting for spring to sell?" she asked.

That made him look at her, eyebrows quirked.

"I'm talking about the farm," she clarified. "Are you waiting for spring—"

She trailed off at the expression that came over his face. It looked… confused.

He stared at her for a long time.

His eyes, she realized, were very blue.

Finally, he opened his mouth to reply: "I'm not selling."

"Excuse me?"

She couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. He picked up on it and frowned.

"They worked for years to buy this farm, to make this land into what it is now. They always said it was for my—" He cut himself off. A second passed, two. His eyes narrowed. "That farm was their whole life, and they entrusted it to me, and you expect me to just get rid of it?"

He looked furious, the mess of hair and beard on his face making in looked even more menacing. Colette found herself unable to reply.

"You'll be disappointed, then," Cain said, taking a couple step back. His voice trembled slightly, out of anger and, Colette suddenly realized, hurt. "I'm not selling," he repeated.

With that he turned away and left, shoulders hunched against the wind. She watched him go.

Once he'd disappeared she turned back towards the grave, the headstone with Louise's familiar name on it, the box of plants and its violets standing proud, unbending and almost accusing.

 

*

 

Laura laughed when she told her.

"Seriously?" she said, before dissolving into laughter again.

Colette, who still felt a bit shamed over the short conversation she'd had with Cain, smiled uncomfortably.

"Hey, Jake, guess what!" Laura called unexpectedly. The young man, who was sitting at the other end of the diner, looked over. As did the numerous friends surrounding him at his table. "City Dweeb's planning to keep old Maur's farm!"

"You're kidding," Jake called back. His words were almost drowned by scoffs and jeers.

"Not even, Collie here heard it from the man himself," Laura confirmed, pointing at Colette over her shoulder. Colette's lips twitched when half the boys' eyes swung towards her, looking for confirmation.

"Well, that's gonna end well for sure," Jerry muttered—loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Fifty bucks he goes bankrupt within the year and has to sell anyways," Bob exclaimed, unleashing another bout of laughter. Laura joined.

"A hundred bucks he hacks a foot off trying to chop some wood before the end of summer," Marv' added.

"And goes crying to his dad." They all laughed again.

Colette felt painfully ill-at-ease.

She would've liked to point out that Cain had been helping Maurice and Louise on the farm for three years before they'd passed away, and therefore probably knew at least the basics of keeping one.

( _He works hard_ , Maurice had said once, maybe trying to redeem his grandson a bit in her eyes. _He complains a lot, but he does as he's told, and he does it well_.

_And he never needs to be told twice_ , Louise had concurred, probably sensing Colette's skepticism.)

She would've also liked to remind them that Cain's father was dead.

(And, from what little she'd heard, he hadn't been the kind of father you ran to when upset, or ever.)

But it wasn't like her to attract attention to herself that way, especially not to start a conflict. She remained quiet.

Laura noticed, and took her hand.

"Don't look like that, Collie," she said, voice reassuring. "The farm'll be okay. The boys are right, he won't last long out there. Someone else will take over soon, and _they_ 'll know what they're doing, and Maur and Lou's memory'll be honored properly, you'll see."

Colette forced a smile. Laura had it completely wrong—but Colette couldn't tell her that.

She wouldn't have understood.

 

*

 

He came to town from time to time, for necessities, groceries and tools. And now that people were aware of his intention to stay, they took note.

It became a sort of game. He was a curiosity, a running joke. People gawked and gossiped, everyone always knew when he'd been sighted, at the hardware store or at the market, at the nursery two towns over or at the edges of his property closest to the road. They commented on what he bought, on the car he drove, on the state of his clothes, eagerly looking for signs that he was fraying at the edges, that soon the day would dawn where he would stop coming.

He didn't.

He ignored the stares, did his business in town then drove back the way he'd come, went back to his life, to work.

Or so Colette heard. Somehow she was never there at the right time to catch him.

And then one day, it was fall, she was at the market, she stopped in front of Joshua's stall, arrested by the sheer abundance of apples on display. She barely hesitated before buying several pounds, already drawing plans for jelly and compote and pie.

"You're having a good harvest this year," she complimented as he helped her bag her purchase.

"I'd thank you, but most of it isn't mine," he smiled, his dark skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. 

"It isn't?"

He shook his head. "It comes from the Knight farm. The boy did a great job pruning his trees year before last, and it shows now."

"It does," Colette murmured, watching the fruit. "Do you see him often?" she asked more hesitantly.

"We're almost neighbors," Joshua said with a shrug, by which he meant that, even though their properties didn't touch, the road leading into town passed in front of them both. "We get along. I guess I can sympathize with his situation."

She wondered what he meant, brow furrowing slightly as she asked herself if he too had lost his family—until she realized that he was talking about something else. That as the only black farmer around Joshua had had his fair share of being mocked, of being rejected, of being threatened, even. Now his presence was accepted, considered a given by some, but it hadn't always been that way.

"We've come to an agreement," Joshua went on. "He helps me when I need a pair of extra hands, I sell his produce when I come here."

"Why doesn't he sell it himself?" Colette asked with a puzzled frown.

Joshua gave her a look, his smile never leaving his lips. "Would you have bought those apples if he'd been the one selling them?" Colette wanted to protest at once that she would have, of course she would have—or at least she thought so. But before she could speak he added: "And would anyone else?"

And to that, at least, the answer was obvious.

 

*

 

The Knight farm looked like it always had when she stopped beside it a little over two weeks later. The grass had been recently mowed, the hedges trimmed. The window frames had been repainted since the last time she'd been here. Maurice's truck was here, parked in front of her car, stained with mud—the man had never seen the point in washing it from fall to spring, and it seemed his grandson had the same opinion on the matter.

Colette was exceedingly nervous.

She allowed herself a minute to take a breath, then picked up the small crate sitting on the passenger seat and climbed out.

No one answered when she knocked. Pressing her lips together, she knocked again, called: "Hello?"

She was getting ready to walk around the house and go see if Cain was in the garden, too far away to hear, when the door opened and here he was.

His hair and beard were even longer and more unkempt than the last time they'd spoken.

He stared at her.

"Hi," she said. "I bought some of your apples. Joshua told me. I mean—" She was babbling, she realized, and stopped. She closed her eyes, let out a breath. Tried again: "I made some jelly from your apples, and I thought you might like a couple of jars."

That was better. Until Cain replied:

"I know how to make jelly."

"Oh," she let out. "Right, of course. Sorry." It seemed she couldn't do or say anything in his presence without being insulting.

"No, I mean," he returned hastily. " _I_ am sorry. I mean, thank you. You can— Please, come in."

The turnaround was unexpected, but she was all too happy to take the offer.

Cain took the crate from her to let her hang her coat. She did and looked around, curious.

Inside the house was familiar and not. Touches of Louise and Maurice's presence were still visible—old jackets and boots near the entrance, lace-curtains on the windows, an old quilt thrown over the back of the couch—but Cain had made the space his. The couch and armchairs had been moved to welcome a small TV set, a bookshelf had been added in a corner, the stove had been replaced. The place was cluttered in a way it had never been while Louise and Maurice were alive, a bit dusty, but overall clean.

"I don't get many visitors," Cain apologized as he tried to free a small space on the kitchen table. From the look of it he'd been repairing a lamp. "You can sit," he added, drawing out a chair.

She sat.

Silence settled. She had no idea what to say. And no idea why he'd invited her in, actually.

He was hovering near the table, tugging at the rolled up sleeve of his left arm—a tic she now remembered for having seen it often over the years. His henley, as well as his jeans, had seen better days and were in definite need of a wash.

"I could make some coffee," he suggested.

It had always been the first thing Louise offered when she'd come visit. Cain was trying to be welcoming, Colette realized. Like his grandparents would've been.

She nodded with a small smile. "That'd be lovely, thank you."

While he was busy with the machine she let her eyes rove over the kitchen, taking in the many cans and baskets, the pots and plates—washed but piled up on the drainer—, the few empty bottles of beer standing beside the trash can. Over it, through the window, she could see the garden.

She squinted.

"Are those beehives?"

Cain glanced over his shoulder, then followed her gaze.

"Yes," he said. "I put them up last spring. Could even harvest some honey this summer already."

Colette smiled up at him he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "I don't remember Maurice ever having any."

"No," Cain replied, leaning against the counter with his own mug as his gaze returned to the garden outside. "It was always Abel's dream."

He fell silent after that, sunk in thoughts.

"You said you were able to harvest some honey already?" Colette cautiously prompted after a while. "I didn't know it yielded results so quickly."

"It can," Cain said, and with her encouragements explained a little bit how it was done, how he'd found and moved the colonies, how he'd learned the basics of beekeeping in the first place—from a woman named Missouri, he said. Joshua had introduced them.

It led them through a conversation—a stilted one, but still the longest, most civil they'd ever had, so that by the time they'd finished their coffees and Colette got ready to leave, she felt confident enough to suggest:

"Maybe we could meet up in town one of these days—if you have an errand to run or come to have your hair cut."

She realized that might not have been the most delicate hint when Cain ran a self-conscious hand through his hair.

"Yes, I haven't had much time to—" he started.

"No, I understand, I'm so—" she cut in.

"I've been busy and—"

"I know."

They both stopped talking and stood awkwardly, before they said their goodbyes.

It hadn't been the most pleasant visit, far from it, but as she drove back to town, Colette felt like she had done right by Louise and Maurice, for the first time since they'd died.

 

*

 

About three weeks later came a rare sunny day, probably one of the last before winter took hold of the country. The temperatures were low, though, so Colette settled for enjoying the rays of the sun through the windows of the diner, over an early lunch with Sandra.

She heard the door jingle open but paid it no heed until someone stopped beside their table and Sandra stopped talking. Colette looked up.

Cain looked a lot less wild than when she'd visited. He had indeed gotten a haircut—even though his hair remained longer than Louise had kept them—and although the beard was still here, it was now neatly trimmed, curving close to his jaw. Underneath his coat his jeans and flannel shirt were clean.

"Hello," he said. "I wanted to give these back to you." He held up a the small crate she'd brought him, the couple jars in it now empty. A third one, which wasn't had been added. "There's a jar of honey too, as thanks," he explained once she'd taken the crate. "In case you wanted to try it. I'll… leave you to your lunch now."

She barely had the time to thank him before he was back out the door.

"Who was that?" Sandra asked after a little while, voice strangely interested.

Colette frowned. "Cain Knight," she replied. "Maurice and Louise's grandson?"

Sandra blinked. "That," she said. " _That_ was the City Dweeb?" She turned towards the window, as if to try and catch another glimpse of him. " _Damn_."

Colette gazed at the jar of honey resting on the table beside her. It was a rich, deep yellow color,  clear and tempting. She couldn't wait to taste it.

Damn indeed.

 

*

 

(In all the years that followed, Cain kept his hair carefully cut, his beard trimmed—although he let if grow a bit longer with time.

Which is why she is surprised, one day, when he comes to visit and she realizes his hair has grown long enough for a curl to topple down his forehead, down to his cheekbone.

"I know, I know," he says when she reaches out and tucks some of it behind his ear. "I haven't found the time to have it cut. Things have been unexpectedly busy with Castiel's project, we had a lot more kids this year than the last."

Colette can feel herself smile. She keeps brushing her husband's locks, remembering a time when they were much longer than that, remembering the boy who wore them. Cain's hair and beard are salt-and-pepper now, but they are no less thick, no less lush.

"You don't have to," she says. "I quite like it."

Dean has been showing her the _Lord of the Rings_ movies, one half-movie at a time—they are ridiculously long and Dean insists they take their time to savor them properly. She has seen Aragorn. She understands the appeal.

Cain has paused and is now looking at her. Her smile widens.

 

*

 

Somehow, Cain never gets around to booking an appointment at the hairdresser.

Meanwhile, his hair keeps growing.

 

*

 

There's a new nurse on the ward. When Cain comes to visit, Colette notices her noticing him.

"Was that your husband, Mrs. Knight?" she asks once he is gone.

"Yes, it was," Colette says with a smile.

Over the years she's gotten used to the reactions of the hospital's personal to him—and she's definitely noticed a new wave of appreciative remarks since he's let his hair grow long again.

"Damn," the nurse says.

Colette might preen a little every time it happens. Internally.

"I'm very lucky," she says, "I know."

She can't wait to show her her son, and her son-in-law.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you wanna come say hi or want to get new updates sooner, since I always post them there first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Dean discovers Cain's ~~meth lab~~.

Thing was, Dean didn't even mean to pry.

He'd been sent down to the cellar to find a jar of peas. The only one he'd found had been kind of old, maybe even a bit moldy—he hadn't dared to look too closely. So he'd kept looking, going deeper and deeper between the shelves.

Why he'd thought that he might find his luck by digging through the strata of cans and jars from years past, he didn't know.

The Knight farm wasn't small, but its basement was even larger, Dean knew. There was a huge room under the hut where Cas and Cain put away the honeycombs before they could extract the honey, filled with fancy machines, centrifuges and decanters and such. The cellar under the house was the same, following its foundations but reaching even further in places. So Dean wasn't surprised, exactly, when at the end of a shelf he found a door.

It was ajar. Probably led to a storage room, maybe one that was a bit drier than the rest of the basement: its floor was slightly elevated, marked by a step. It was only for the sake of being thorough that Dean pushed the door and entered. He fumbled for a knob to turn on the light and—

Paused, his hand on the dial.

And stared.

After a while he tilted his head to the side (Cas' influence, he was distantly aware).

He stood in the corner of a small square room. It was full—but not of shelves, or jars, or even tools. Instead there were bottles lined against the walls, under the tables, and on the tables there were… things. A huge metal contraption with a round body and tubes and stuff, large glass containers with narrow necks like overweight bottles, some sort of big wooden barrel in a corner with a metal rod sticking out of it, while others, normal-looking ones lay on their sides in an alcove. There was a camping stove and a bunch of large pots, or something like it anyways, and what the hell had Dean just stumbled upon?

He hadn't moved from his spot in the doorway. He switched the light off, backed out of the room, stumbled down the single step and drew door until it was back to its original position.

_What the fuck was that?_ he wondered as he slowly returned to the shelves and his search.

_Looked shady as fuck_ , he thought as he resigned himself to taking the only jar of peas he'd found; he would have to warn Cas they were out. _If not totally illegal_.

He took a closer look at the can. Its content didn't look new but still seemed edible.

_Like something out of a movie_ , his mind went on. _Like a lab or_ —

The jar almost slipped between his fingers as realization dawned. He barely caught it and clutched it against his chest—because no, that couldn't be it, could it? He tried to remember what he'd seen, the pots and the tubes and the plates and he hadn't seen any chemical products but there had been bottles and now way for him to know what they contained and _oh my God it totally is_ , he thought.

He'd stumbled on a meth lab.

(Cain's meth lab?)

Point was, Dean had seen it.

…

He was a dead man.

 

*

 

In the days that follow Dean is jittery. Understandably so, in his opinion.

He's waiting for moment when Cain will corner him in a secluded part of the garden and hack him into pieces. He knows it's coming: he didn't tell anything to anyone about what he found in the basement, but he's certain that Cain knows, or will find out some way or another, and no matter what Cas says Dean has never been able to shake off the feeling that the man is just waiting for an excuse to quietly dispose of him.

He has one now. Now that Dean knows, he is a liability.

So yeah, he is jittery.

Cas notices.

And he's the one to corner Dean. Or rather make him sit on the couch so he can prod gently but insistently at him, eyes worried.

It doesn't take long for Dean to cave. Because, well, Cas deserves to know, doesn't he?

( _But what if he knows already?_ part of Dean's mind whispers. Dean tries to ignore it.)

"It looked like a meth lab," Dean concludes after far too much babbling. "Please tell me it's not a meth lab?"

Cas stares.

"A… meth lab," he repeats slowly.

( _So he didn't know?_ another part of Dean perks up, hopeful.)

His face is strangely blank.

(Or he did, and is ready to side with his father, and is already planning how to get rid of the body.)

He presses his lips together.

(Oh God, Dean is going to die.)

He bursts out laughing.

(Uh?)

And laughs. And laughs.

And here is the thing: Cas never laughs. He smiles—a lot more often than he used to before Dean came along, or so Colette says. When he finds something very funny he might grin. The most he ever does is let out an amused huff, in front of cartoons for the most part, or an involuntarily chuckle when Dean is being particularly ridiculous. But he never outright laughs.

Yet here he is, laughing, out loud, so hard he can't breathe and Dean's getting kind of worried. But every time Cas seems to be getting it together, quieting down, every time Dean calls his name, their eyes catch and Cas dissolves all over again and—

Well. Dean is confused.

 

*

 

"Ah, Dean," Cain says, like Dean's just the man he wanted to see. (Dean never is the man Cain wants to see.) "Sit down."

He is sitting at the kitchen table, leaning back against his chair with his arms crossed. On the wooden surface there is a bottle—dark glass, no label—and two glasses.  
Cas is nowhere in sight. As always, it makes Dean nervous.

He sits.

He tries not to squirm as Cain looks at him. Seconds tick by silently.

"Castiel tells me you found our distillery," the man finally says.

Dean feels himself flush.

After he recovered from his hilarity (it had taken a long time, he'd filled his laughing quota for the week, or the month—hell, for the whole _year_ ) Cas explained everything. In between disturbing giggles, he taught Dean words like still, demijohn, carboy, apple press, vat and tank. He explained what they're for.

Which, as it turns out, is not producing meth, but booze.

Because apparently the Knights like to brew and/or distill their own when they feel like it.

It is not illegal, Cas said, as long as they don't sell or distribute it.

(Dean is willing to bet they _totally_ distribute it, under the table when they barter over fruit tree saplings and grafts.)

They distill kirsch when the cherry trees have been especially productive and they've gotten to them before the birds. They brew mead with the honey that didn't sell and is threatening to crystallize. Most of the time though, Cain prefers to make bourbon.

(Which, Cas reminded Dean, is made from corn.

Why was Dean even surprised.)

"I'm sorry," he says now, still trying not to squirm. "I didn't mean to snoop."

Cain waves his apology away. Dean clamps mouth shut. "It's not like we have anything to hide. Now," Cain says, picking up the bottle, "I know it's not _meth_ —" And from the way he says it sounds like he might start laughing about that too, which is an even scarier prospect than everything and anything he's ever done or said. "—but I think it's time for you to try it and see a bit more of what we do here." He uncorks the bottle and pours some of its content into the glasses. "Honey is good, but it's not all there is to it."

The bottle is familiar one, and so is the dark tawny liquid flowing out of it. Dean's seen Cain and Cas knock back two or three glasses of the stuff in celebration after a job well-done—when they're done harvesting the honey, extracting it and putting it into jar, and that time they sold all their products at the yearly fair. Dean has wondered about the drink but never asked if he could taste it, and neither Cain nor Cas offered.

That Cain is offering now feels symbolic. Like an invitation into their circle, into their family even.

It also feels like a dare.

Of course, Dean's heard stories about crazy homemade brews. But one, he's John Winchester's son: he does not back down in front of a challenge. And two, from what he's seen, Cas drinks it like its nothing, so it can't be that bad, can it?

He takes the glass. Cain does the same with his—but doesn't take a sip, quite clearly waiting for Dean to do the honors. Dean sniffs the liquid discreetly. It smells strong, and not much else. Cain's watching him, patient.

_Well, here goes nothing_ , Dean thinks. He takes a breath, brings the glass to his lips and pours its content down his throat.

It takes everything he has not to choke.

(He forgot the third possibility: that it was a trap.)

He holds back the hiccup, the grunt. Makes himself swallows. His hair is standing on end. Tears have jumped to his eyes and he can't breathe.

_Fuck_.

(It's like gasoline.)

"Good, eh?" he hears Cain say. Through his blurry vision Dean sees him knock back his glass and put it back down on the table with a pleased sigh.

Dean knew the guy wasn't human.

(Apparently, neither is Cas.)

His mouth and throat are on fire. His brain feels likes it's been upended. He's pretty sure he's fried some brain cells.

He blinks and blinks and blinks and finally his vision starts to clear.

"Another one?" Cain offers, bottle already hovering over Dean's glass. His voice is entirely neutral, his face betrays nothing. It could be that he hasn't noticed that Dean nearly had a stroke because of his whiskey, but Dean knows he'd never be that lucky.

Besides, he's starting to know Cas' dad, and his own brand of sadism.

He hastily puts his hand over the glass.

"I wouldn't want to indulge too much," he says with a forced smile.

It sounds more like a squeak—conceding defeat, he knows—but he has to be proud that his voice comes out at all.

 

*

 

Colette is always delighted when he goes visit her at the hospital—surprisingly so, in his eyes, because apart from his family and Cas no one's ever looked that glad to see him, and because he's not her son. He's not even her son-in-law.

Yet.

She never fails to ask if they've decided on a date for the wedding, especially since the Supreme Court's rendered its judgment. Dean suspects she wants to have some part in the preparations. What's more, he suspects she wants all her hospital friends (which means the whole hospital) to have some part in the preparations. Each and everyone of them has a daughter, or a grandson, or a cousin, or knows someone who knows someone who is a caterer, a dance teacher, who owns a bakery or a flower shop, who works as a real estate agent, or knows a great tailor, or has a band.

The way it sounds, all of them combined would have a wedding planned and ready to go within a week.

The patients themselves would lend a hand in the scheme, turn it into a workshop or something—create a Napkin Folding Club, teach Flower arrangements 101, give an Introduction to table name tags. It would definitely be a change from the usual arts and crafts, Dean guesses.

So when he sits down at Colette's bedside that morning, he expects more of that. But Colette is looking at him with a weird smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Like she's about to share the best of jokes.

"So," she says. "A meth lab? Really?"

Apparently, the joke's on Dean.

"News travel fast, I see," Dean says.

He wants to sound forbidding, he want to sound haughty.

It doesn't hide how mortified he feels.

 

*

 

And then Hannah and her husband Joe come up from Topeka for a rare visit. It's Cas' birthday tomorrow, and she managed to get a couple days off despite her busy schedule.

They're both sitting on the couch, Dean on armchair nearby. Cain is with Colette in their room—she's been allowed home for the occasion, but has to take it easy and is resting before lunch. Cas is in the kitchen preparing lunch, because he only agreed to do nothing on D day, no matter how hard Dean tried to persuade him otherwise.

Which leaves Dean to entertain the guests—who aren't quite guests, since they're family.

They've gone through the usual pleasantries, the how-have-you-beens, the what's-news, the what's-nexts. Hannah spoke a bit about her work at the hospital—busy but fulfilling, as always—and Joe talked about his kids. He's a high school teacher, and from there he and Dean have segued into an idea Joe's been toying with, of taking his class on a field trip on the farm. He teaches biology, and since Dean and Cas started their summer camp project for troubled youth he's been wondering.

Dean, of course, is all for that. They might get a bit carried away.

"We'll have to be careful so they don't find out about the lab, though," Hannah butts in. "Kids at that age, they're so impressionable, I don't think that'd go down well with the parents."

She says it so casual, so deadpan, that for a second Dean doesn't get what she's on about.

She takes a sip of her beer, looking at him. It's eerily reminiscent of her father.

Which is what makes the dots connect.

Dean groans and buries his head between his hands. "Oh my God," he mutters, because her too? Will no one spare him in this family? Who is next, Joe?

(Seriously, if nice, somewhat awkward Joe, Dean's only real ally when faced with Cain because he's the only one who _understands_ what that's like, if Joe starts on him too Dean'll definitely have a breakdown.)

Fortunately, that's when Cas steps back into the room. The chicken and potatoes are in the oven, all that's left to do is wait. He sits down, so now Dean can flee without feeling guilty for abandoning guests.

He does.

 

*

 

After Dean's been gone for half an hour, Castiel goes looking. He finds him in their room, sitting at the bottom of bed, hands clasped between his knees. There's a hunted look about his eyes when he looks up.

"You're never gonna let me live it down, are you?" he says with a smile, but Castiel catches the first cracks at the edges, the first hints of actual hurt underneath it all.

He goes to join him on the bed, changes his mind at the last second and plops down sideways on his lap instead. Dean moves at once to accommodate him, straightening up, drawing his knees closer, slinging his arms around Castiel's waist so he can't slide. It wakes a quiet thrill inside Cas, as always.

"Even you will admit that the confusion was amusing," he consoles.

"Maybe," Dean concedes reluctantly. "But come on, it wasn't _that_ far-fetched, what with all the tubes and the hotplates and the everything."

"Given that I have no idea what a meth lab looks like, I can't really say," Castiel points out.

"Only you wouldn't have seen _Breaking Bad_ ," Dean mutters.

"Only _you_ would've seen it and started seeing it everywhere."

"Well, I _did_ wonder how you manage to deal with all those hospital bills…"

"Very careful budgeting, mostly."

Dean should know: he's seen how religiously Cas keeps their books, calculates their income and expense; he even took a class to be able to help. Ever since Hannah finished her residency and paying back her student loans it's been easier, but still.

Dean lets out a small sound and rests his forehead on Cas' shoulder.

"I feel stupid," he admits. "And okay, I'm used to it, especially in front of your dad, but…"

Castiel feels himself frown, and starts massaging the back of Dean's head to soothe him.

It's something Dean struggles with, he knows. He watches Castiel and Cain work on the farm, sees everything they do, everything they know, and he tries to help, he tries to learn, he works _so hard_. But it's a lot to catch up on, and Dean forgets that Cain and Castiel had years to learn, to make mistakes and do better. All he sees are the discrepancies. All he thinks is that all of it he could and should already know—if only he were better, smarter, more open-minded, more curious. More like Sam, Castiel suspects.

He knows it pains Dean, to see him and his father manage the farm side by side like a well-oiled machine, while he struggles to follow, to remember what must be done when and how and why. He knows it makes Dean feel out-of-place, like he doesn't belong.

Confusing a still with a retort can be seen as nothing but a funny mistake, but in Dean's eyes it is but another proof of his inadequacy.

"They're just teasing you," Castiel reassures. He never wants Dean to feel like this. "You realize what that means, don't you?"

Because while they behave very differently when interacting with people—one intimidating, the other nice nice, the last one reserved—Cain, Colette and Hannah have several things in common. One of them being, they don't tease strangers. They don't tease people they barely know, or people they don't like. They don't even tease friends.

They only tease family.

And Castiel knows Dean's noticed.

"Okay, yeah," Dean says, straightening up with a sigh. "I guess."

Because even if he knows, it doesn't mean it can hurt for reasons that have little to do with it.

"I'll tell them to back off," Castiel says, and drops a kiss onto Dean's forehead.

"My knight in shining armor," Dean singsongs back, because apparently, to him, that pun will never get old. He tilts his head pointedly and Castiel obediently drops another kiss, this time on his right cheekbone. Then it's the left, and Dean, now with his eyes closed, juts his chin forward. Castiel is not that easy, though. He aims for Dean's nose.

Dean pouts.

…

Or maybe Castiel _is_ that easy. When he nips at Dean's lips, he feels him start to smile. And hum.

The chicken is nearly burnt by the time they come back downstairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm [on tumblr](princessniitza.tumblr.com) for those who want to chat or get early updates :)


	5. Chapter 5

When Marv (finally) handed over the keys to his—now former—house and drove away in a cloud of dust and disgruntlement, there was a party.

Dean went, which no one found surprising. Castiel knew— _everyone_ knew—that he'd had a bottle of nice whisky waiting just for that very occasion. He'd been the one to suggest they celebrate as soon as he'd gotten wind of Marv's planned departure. Hell, he'd more or less _organized_ the whole shindig himself.

What was more surprising was how many people turned up. And _who_ exactly turned up.

There was Castiel's father, to start with—although given that the party was taking place on the farm, it wasn't like he'd had to put in the effort of actively _going_ somewhere. There was Rufus Turner, but he'd probably been lured in by the booze. There was old Joshua. There were most of Colette's friends and former classmates, even though she herself hadn't been allowed out of the hospital. There was Charlie, who'd be staying over for the weekend. There were a lot of their regulars from the market, which Dean had invited the previous Sunday. There was Benny, the owner of the diner they ate at whenever they went to the movies in Superior. There was Bobby Singer, who for some reason had driven all the way down from Sioux Falls. But most of all, there was Frank Devereaux, the paranoid recluse who refused to ever step outside his house for fear of murder attempts.

People took note of it, made sure to drop by his chair to greet him and clink their glasses against his in celebration. They'd collectively designated him the guest of honor, it seemed. But none of them lingered, none of them let him rope them into a conversation. They all knew better.

All, except Dean. After all these years he still remained a newcomer in many respects, a novice—Castiel remembered his sad little moue a couple of months ago, when he'd realized that a third of the saplings they'd made sprout weren't going to make it, remembered him nudging a yellowing leaf with a finger and encouraging a small plant to fight. Part of Castiel found such reactions endlessly adorable—although he would never admit it out loud, if only to spare Dean's sensitive pride.

(What was it Charlie always said? _Too precious for this world, too pure_.

Castiel still didn't understand what cinnamon rolls had to do with it, though.)

Castiel wasn't surprised, therefore, when he caught sight of Dean standing beside Frank's deckchair, politeness preventing him from simply walking away. The look on his face was half-confused, half-glazed while Frank the man talked at him. And so Castiel came to the rescue.

He walked over and caught the middle of Frank's rant—"You don't _get_ it, Monsanto, Sucrocorps, it's _all the same_."—, which he smoothly interrupted by asking:

"Is everything all right here?"

He handed Dean one of the two bottles of beer he'd brought. Dean took it gratefully.

"Your boy is depressingly naive, Junior," Frank declared. Castiel appeased him by topping up his paper cup of whiskey with the bottle sitting near his chair and snatched Dean away with an excuse: he was needed to help start the barbecue. Which wasn't even a lie, as Dean had proven to be far more gifted at using the grill than both Castiel and his father, much to Cain's dismay.

"Are you okay?" he asked as they walked away.

"Not sure I know what just happened, but yeah, I think so?" Dean replied, scratching his head. "He was going on and on about how 'it's all dick', and I don't know if he was complaining about how they make everything about sex nowadays, even food, or if he means that all the higher-ups in big agrochemical companies are dicks, or—"

Castiel had to bite back a grin. "Oh, no," he said, mirth clear in his voice. "It's much simpler than that. Dick Roman is the CEO of Sucrocorps, which owns most of the industry. Frank is convinced that he's the Antichrist and out to get us all."

"Ah."

"Which is not entirely wrong," Castiel cautiously conceded.

"Oh, so it's not all crazy talk?" Dean asked. They'd reached the barbecue. He put his bottle on the table and bent to pick up the bag of coal and fill it up.

Castiel took a sip of his beer as he mulled over his answer. "Well. We do use methods of agriculture that, in Mr. Roman's eyes, shouldn't exist anymore. To most people, small scale farming doesn't even exist, never did, not here in the US. But we're actually gaining ground." He smiled. "More and more people are starting to care about the way their food is produced. We have the popular vote. Of course, it's an ongoing fight, and it's far from being won, but we don't give up."

"So what, you're the rebellion fighting against international food corporations?" Dean asked as he tore out and crumpled old newspaper pages to stuff the bottom of the fire starter.

Castiel pursed his lips. "Well, in our current times, eating the food you grow yourself with little to no pesticides, using seeds that you kept from previous harvests or exchanged with neighbors instead of buying them from company chains, does count as a major act of subversion," he said, thoughtfully picking at the label of his bottle.

When he was met by silence, he looked up. Dean was staring at him, bottle of fuel in hand.

"What?"

" _Dude_ ," Dean said.

"What?" Castiel repeated.

"The way you say it—" He started spraying the coal with a smile. "You're _so_ the prince leading the rebellion against the evil intergalactic food empire with its clone sheep and tasteless mutant vegetables—"

"So I'm a prince now?" Castiel asked. "That's quite the promotion." Last he'd heard he'd been nothing but a measly knight.

Dean went on as if he hadn't heard, lighting a match. "—and hey, I'm _totally_ the rugged—yet devilishly handsome—outlaw who stumbled in on it by chance and expected to leave almost at once, only then we fell in love and now I've joined forces with you for the better good."

Castiel watched bemusedly. Dean's smile kept growing. "So in that scenario my father would be the king of our seceding state?"

Dean, who'd just thrown the match into the grill, blinked at him. Castiel tugged him back to make sure he didn't get burned when the fire caught and flames sprung up.

" _Holy shit_ ," Dean exclaimed and burst out laughing. "No, he'd be— Oh, man, that's _awesome_. And your mom's _totally_ Padme, only she kicks so much more ass that she didn't die and so your dad never went full on dark side."

By then, Castiel felt quite lost. He told Dean so.

"Seriously?" Dean said, losing his grin. It was replaced by outrage. "We've been married three years and you haven't seen _Star Wars_? How did _that_ happen?" He pouted and pointed dramatically. "That's ground for divorce, you know."

"I have seen _Star Wars_ ," Castiel countered. "A long time ago. A very long time ago, I was a boy at the time. Ten years old, maybe." He felt himself squint, trying to see the memory more clearly. "I liked the droids."

"Dude," Dean said. " _Everyone_ likes the droids."

"I have to admit I don't remember much else."

"Well, we definitely need to refresh your memory, then," Dean declared peremptorily. A second later, he was grinning again, his elbow nudging Castiel's. "You totally save my life in this scenario."

"I do?"

"And then we kiss," he pointed out.

"Ah."

"We can kiss now too."

They most certainly could. And did.

 

*

 

It was only later that Dean understood why the people at his party had believed it was being held in Frank's honor, and why they'd taken the time to also toast Rufus, Joshua and Cain. After all, they had been the ones to carefully document the long list of infractions and injuries that had made the authorities fall onto Marv like the wrath of God. But Frank had been the one to jump on the man's farm and land as soon as it had been put on the market, snatching it away before corporations could get wind of it and try to invade their corner of the world.

"Where did he even get the money?" Dean marveled.

"He has a side business in expert hacking and security testing," Castiel explained. "People in high places are willing to pay an even higher price to make sure their system is secure. Although when faced with Frank, it rarely is."

"Uh."

"He also has a fine sense for the fluctuations of the market and for investments, and thus ended up with a small fortune he has little to no use for."

" _Uh_."

Castiel understood the reaction: this was not what you expected when you saw the man.

"So what's he going to do with all that land?" Dean asked. "Not to talk shit about the guy, but what he already has looks like a jungle." He frowned. "Also, he lives in a _trailer_."

"Oh, he'll rent or sell it to his neighbors. He's already drawn up an agreement with my father for a five years payment plan on the parcel next to ours—which is only possible because the price he's asking for it is ridiculously low."

"Yeah?" Dean said, and Castiel could see him reevaluate the opinion he'd had of Frank right then. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Your walnut tree will finally get to grow free."

"Yes it will." It'd never quite recover from the pruning it had been given when Marv had complained, though. Castiel had long since realized he shouldn't have done it, not in the state he'd been in at the time. Whenever he saw the lopsided branches he remembered, and felt ashamed.

"And what are you gonna do with the plot? Does Cain have plans?"

"No."

"No?"

Castiel took Dean's hand. "I said, and he agreed, that this was something you and I should talk about and decide."

It struck Dean silent.

"Really?" he finally asked, sounding incredulous and a bit shy. He knew what it meant, for Castiel to want that, for _Cain_ to agree to it.

"Really," Castiel said, and leaned over for a kiss.

It was high time, after all.

 

*

 

The party wasn't that awful, but a couple of weeks later Cain is still internally recovering from it—so many people on his usually calm and deserted property—and thinking to himself that there is definitely nothing better than a quiet evening in. Or a lot of quiet evenings in.

Dean is in the bathroom because his delicate sensibilities demand he shower immediately after finishing his day's work. Cain is reading on the couch and Castiel is at his usual spot at the kitchen table, doing to the books.

Suddenly he pauses, looks up. The movement is enough to catch Cain's attention and make him glance over.

"John Winchester is Jawa the Hutt," Castiel states, staring into space.

Cain blinks.

And then Castiel… smiles. A weird, satisfied, _dark_ smile. A smile he keeps when he goes back to his accounting, with no further explanation.

Cain is confused. (Not that it shows.)

And see, _that_. That is why some part of Cain still thinks, will always think, that Dean is a bad influence. Because _that_ has his son-in-law written all over it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the tumblr post](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/146852582416/ficlet-the-knights-and-their-bees-extra-5) if you'd like to reblog - or say hello, or cry over the unfairness of canon.


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